


pour me a heavy dose of atmosphere

by ivelostmyspectacles



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Guardian Angels, Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Implied Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 08:30:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13520466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/ivelostmyspectacles
Summary: “You’re made of starlight, Iggy!” He beams, and his guardian angel looks stunned.It clears over quickly, and Ignis smiles back, warm, like his starlit hand on Noctis’s arm. He doesn’t pull away, this time. “So are you, Highness,” he says.Ignis is Noctis's guardian angel. Everything he touches turns to starlight.





	pour me a heavy dose of atmosphere

**Author's Note:**

> This AU is completely product of the lovely [soulmarshal ](http://soulmarshal.tumblr.com)on tumblr. I'm a sucker for guardian angels and immediately fell in love with this idea, and was graciously granted permission to write something for it. I've been agonizing over posting it because I don't think I did it justice, but!! Here we are!! orz
> 
>  
> 
> [I highly recommend checking out the art - esp before reading!!](http://soulmarshal.tumblr.com/tagged/guardian-angel-au)

The first time he sees the starlight on his skin, he is nine, and it fascinates him. He’s seen it in the sky, various points of bright and luminescence given mere hours to show their potential. It’s _nice._ Sometimes it makes him dizzy to look up at them for so long, but there’s always a gloved hand to hold, and Noctis is never scared.

Then he sees the starlight on his skin. He’s nine years old, scared, still in pain. His dad has brought him back to Lucis. Lunafreya and Ravus and Sylva are gone. He clutches Regis’s hand as he stumbles through the Citadel, unwilling to leave his father’s side. He does, of course; he cries himself sick the first time Regis has to leave him in the care of the nanny due to work. He doesn’t cry again after that. But those are the days that lead into the nights where the nightmares come thick and fast, and he awakens screaming or crying or sometimes even paralyzed.

On this particular night, it isn’t the nanny. It is more someone more familiar, fingers long and nimble reaching to stroke soothingly along his arm–

– and there is golden starlight on his skin.

Noct stops crying, and stares at the constellations on his arm.

“Ah, apologies–”

He clutches at the bare hand as it starts to pull away, holding it against his arm. The stars sparkle and dance. He touches it, and there is nothing. But it’s _there_. It’s there and it’s beautiful. He stares, and then lifts his head.

“You’re made of starlight, Iggy!” He beams, and his guardian angel looks stunned.

It clears over quickly, and Ignis smiles back, warm, like his starlit hand on Noctis’s arm. He doesn’t pull away, this time. “So are you, Highness,” he says, and marvels at the child who hasn’t smiled so brightly in so long.

 

He’s twelve when it happens again.

Ignis is nothing if not meticulous. Then again, Noctis supposes, you must not worry about it when you’re a transcendental being. Maybe his clothes just materialize out of nowhere, anyway. He’s never seen him naked, no rhyme or reason to, but even still it takes this long for Ignis to be merely without his gloves. That’s probably only because he’s currently filleting the fish that Noctis has only just caught. Maybe. Noct doesn’t know; he’s been wholly focused on the fishing rod in front of him.

They’re just outside of the city. There’s something of a outcrop nearby, a perfect place to build a fire and roast the fish he’s caught. If they’re out late enough, they’ll look for the stars, but Noctis doubts his angel’s leniency will extend so far.

The fishing rod jerks. Noct exclaims in his excitement, jerking sideways and back before his hands fumble, clumsy and uncoordinated, over the reel. From the corner of his eye, he sees Ignis raise his head, must imagine the warm chuckle he receives. Or maybe he doesn’t. He can’t _help_ but be excited. He’s still new to fishing, and Ignis has been teaching him well. He’ll be able to remain impassive about it one day, surely. That day is not today, and the fish is pulling against the line, sending tremors of adrenaline and excitement through his veins. So taken in is he that he doesn’t notice the end of the pier right beneath his foot; he staggers and then completely loses his balance to pitch off the deck into the water below.

“Highness!”

The lake isn’t deep. It serves more to surprise him and soak him, and he curses internally as he feels the pole leaves his hands in his panic. He doesn’t even have time to push his head to break the surface before hands are grabbing at him, holding onto his upper arms and pulling him to safety.

Ignis needn’t have worried, really. _He’s_ the one who taught him how to swim, after all. And it was just the edge of the water. But Ignis worries all the same, endlessly and patiently, and– and he’s _glowing_ , pale golden light that glitters and dances like the cosmos themselves. Noctis is glowing, too, the illumination flowing along his own skin like the water he’s just been pulled from. It doesn’t hurt. It… _feels_ , he can feel the sensation of it crawling up his body as he clamors onto the deck with Ignis’s help. But it doesn’t hurt, and he can’t help but stare. At himself, at Ignis. He remembers the phenomenon from when he was younger. He appreciates it more now.

Ignis quickly removes his hands, smoothing them down along his own vest. “Are you alright?” he asks, and looks flustered for it.

“… it’s just water,” he murmurs, and touches at a particularly bright spot on his own forearm.

“That will fade, given time,” Ignis says, and steps forward. “Be that as it may…” He murmurs something, something in a language that Noctis can’t understand. It’s beautiful but has pressure behind it, pushing on his eardrums. Or maybe he has water in his ears. Ignis lays a gentle hand on his wrist, and the glow starts to dim beneath his skin.

He is quietly disappointed, although he says nothing.

Later, when they sit by the fire, after Noct has complimented the flavor of the fish and Ignis smiles and assures him that he will make it again for him– or at the very least, stealthily place the recipe within view of the cooking staff– Noctis asks “why’s that happen when you touch stuff without your gloves on?”

Ignis swallows a mouthful of coffee and looks at him as though it’s an obvious question. “I come from Heaven, Highness.”

It’s literal, but Noct still splutters in laughter. “Talk about being conceited!” he jokes, nudges his shoulder.

Ignis smiles, and laughs; he is all light, teeth and eyes and soul. “Perish the thought,” he says. He very gently elbows Noct back.

 

When he’s sixteen, he experiences the true perils of wilderness and all within it. The creature– a sabertusk, Ignis will tell him, when he has calmed down and Noctis has stopped shaking– comes out of nowhere. He panics and scrambles back, hears Ignis yell his name– a frantic _“Noct!”_ somewhere beside him– hears the creature’s growls and smells its breath as it lunges–

– and burns with pale, golden light, suspended in animation with its gaping jowls merely a foot away from Noctis’s face. Noct swallows. He doesn’t dare to move. If he steps back as he wants to, surely the moment will be broken. He looks uncertainly at his guardian angel, now standing tall at his side; his hand is buried deep within the creature’s chest. There is no blood, or guts, or gore, merely the softly pulsing light pouring out from the hide, and as it continues, burns brighter, for a moment Noct thinks he can see the constellations themselves twinkling in his adversary.

He has to close his eyes, then, and when he reopens them, the creature is gone. Ignis is turning towards him, lips parted as though to speak. His eyes widen when he looks over Noctis’s shoulder and Noct must realize there is a pack of them, but he barely has time to take a glance before there are arms around him, warm and strong, and something less so, soft and encompassing; his face is pressed against Ignis’s chest and he feels vaguely… weightless. It lasts only a moment, and when it passes, the air smells less dusty. The wind is still. When he looks down, there is no longer dirt and grass beneath his feet, but tiled flooring, familiar. They’re back in the Citadel, he realizes, and tilts his head up to look at Ignis in his surprise.

The shock from teleportation dies in his throat; much more impressive are the _wings_ , visible from behind Ignis’s shoulders and wrapped securely around both of their bodies. Feathers. The softness brushing along his bare arms comes from _feathers_. Noctis gapes.

He’s seen them before, of course, but not… so up close, not wrapped up with them and Ignis, and his guardian angel’s hands come up to frame his face, warm and secure, and for some reason, Noct’s heart thuds in his chest.

He will blame adrenaline.

“Noct. You’re bleeding.” Ignis brushes a thumb along his cheek. It stings briefly, and comes away with a speck of blood and starlight.

“A… scratch.” He manages to find words. He supposes that must be what it is. Maybe the claws had grazed his skin before Ignis had taken it out. He hadn’t felt it in the moment. He barely feels it now. The pass of Ignis’s fingers against the scratch, and more frantically, the rest of his face, is much more distracting. He swallows.

“Are you hurt elsewhere?” Ignis’s hands now slide down to his throat, the back of his neck, his hair. One falls to cradle the curve of his throat. Everything he touches, glows. “Noct?”

He shakes his head. “No, I’m…” Clears his throat. “I’m good, Specs, calm down.”

“I should have accessed the wildlife risk to a higher degree before we set off–”

“Really, it’s…”

“– foolish of me, we’ll have to disinfect that injury now, lest there was something in the creature’s claws–”

“Ignis.” Noct presses a hand along Ignis’s jaw. It stops him talking. “… ‘m fine, alright?” His heart is still pounding. “Can’t protect me from everything.”

Ignis’s eyes dart to the hand on his face, and then back to Noctis. He must imagine that they fall to his lips, for the briefest second before Ignis speaks. “That is my job, Highness.”

What is he doing? He doesn’t pull his hand back. Ignis hasn’t moved, either. The pressure of a hand on his shoulder and neck and wings around him. What is he _doing?_ His mind’s gone blank again. He has to swallow again to get moisture back in his mouth. “There’s… some things you can’t protect me from, you know.”

He looks at him for a long moment, and then viridian eyes close. “I refuse to accept that,” Ignis says softly, and there is something so much more pained to his voice that Noct doesn’t understand. He frowns, but Ignis is already pulling away, and the loss of the warmth of his skin and safety of the circle of his wings distracts him.

“I’ll get the antiseptic, Noct. Stay put.”

It’s just a scratch, he wants to say, again, but Ignis is already striding away. He’s confused, suffused in an odd warmth, with his skin still glowing faintly. He knows Ignis will dispense of it when he returns, after he tends to the wound he’s received, but there are bigger things. More important things that have him scrambling to keep up with… whatever the hell his heart had just decided to want to act upon in the last sixty seconds.

A patch of white on the floor catches his attention. One of the feathers. Dislodged from Ignis’s wings? Or had it been torn out by the pack of creatures he hadn’t had a chance to see? He hadn’t been injured, had he? Noctis frowns. Stoops to pick up the feather from the floor and looks towards the doorway Ignis had gone through. He’ll have to make sure he’s okay.

He tucks the feather into his pocket before Ignis can return.

 

“Damn it!”

Ignis’s eyes are twinkling. _“Language,_ Noct.”

He sits up and wills the sparring stick back into his hand, grimacing. “You wouldn’t be saying ‘language’ if I managed to knock you on your ass a few times, too.”

“Language,” Ignis repeats, and twirls his own training stick between his fingers.

He’s being cocky. It’s a challenge. Even now at seventeen, Cor’s top complaint about Noctis’s fighting skill is that he lets his emotions get the better of him. And Noct _realizes_ it, he just can’t… _help_ it, in the thick of things. He gets _angry_. Or, in the case of training with Ignis, annoyed at the very most.

“I’m pretty sure I’m gonna have a bruise on my ass from falling so much,” he grumbles, and Ignis looks fit to laugh.

He doesn’t, though, and falls into defensive stance instead. “Again,” he orders, and Noct immediately falls into offense.

His attack is naturally blocked– Ignis being otherworldly does make it more difficult to get a hit in, and he’s going hard on him– but he has banked on it; when the block comes, Noct twists his wrist and lets go of the stick, sending it flying into the wall instead. Ignis’s startled gaze follows it and– there, his opening, presented. He throws his entire weight at Ignis, and it earns him another brief, startled noise before they end up, tangled, in a heap together on the floor.

Ignis makes a noise of what Noctis takes as defeat, and the prince grins against his shirt. “Gotcha.”

He barely takes half a moment to melt into Ignis’s warmth before he suddenly finds himself pushed away, shifted as if he weighs nothing, gone rolling and pressed back into the unforgiving floor. Ignis pins him with a knee between his legs, a hand over his shoulder, and Noctis looks up at him, and Ignis looks down, and smiles, and it’s blinding.

He doesn’t move. Neither does Noctis, staring at him, and then his lips, so close to his own mouth. He raises his eyebrows and finally says, “well, are you gonna kiss me or what?”

This time, Ignis does give a warm huff of laughter. And then he leans down to kiss him, soft and slow. The motion is familiar. His lips are familiar. Most things are, now, right down to the glow that emanates from the gentle touch along his jaw.

“The Marshal is correct.” Ignis’s response comes at length. “You do let your emotions get the best of you.”

Now it’s Noctis’s turn to laugh, threading his fingers into the back of Ignis’s hair and lacing them together. “Thank _God.”_

“Noct.”

“Oh, it’s fine, I know, I’m not _actually_ trying to hurt you anyway.” He kisses him again, scrapes his nails lightly against his scalp. “I know how to fight. Cor says I’m mostly okay.”

Ignis sighs, long suffering and amused together. He says nothing in return, merely acquiesces to the insistant press of the prince’s lips on his, and Noctis thinks _I really have won this round._

“– for fuck’s sake.”

Noct almost cracks his head on the floor at the voice from the opposite side of the room; Ignis pulls away quickly and sits back.

Gladio meets their gazes with an eye roll, and a look that is far too amused for the chastising tone he’s using. “Thought training went on in here. _Fighting,_ ” he clarifies, and there is laughter in his eyes. “Sparring.”

“I thought you had your blinders on,” Noct complains. If he throws his arm over his eyes, it’s because he knows Gladio won’t let him live it down _and_ he’ll probably tell Cor, too.

Ignis clears his throat. Prompto and Gladio have known about his presence for a few years now, or he would likely be far more concerned. “Apologies. They slipped.”

“Yeah, because it looks even _more_ normal if you’re making out with your imaginary friend.”

“He’s not my _imaginary friend.”_ It’s more reflex than anything, but Gladio has a point. He cringes internally and then fixes Ignis with a stare. “And what do you mean, ‘they slipped’?? _You’re_ the one always concerned with humans seeing you!”

Ignis shrugs, very lightly. The air of supreme unconcern. “I was otherwise occupied,” he says innocently, and Noctis doesn’t believe him for a moment. (Well, he _does_ , considering his lips are still tingling with the feel of Ignis’s mouth. But still.)

Gladio snorts and starts across the room to pick out a weapon. “Well, _I_ want a piece of the action. And not _that_ kind of action,” he adds, and swings his chosen blade experimentally. “If you think you two can pull yourselves away from each other long enough for a bout.”

While he might roll his eyes, Noctis urges Ignis forward with a laugh. “Go kick his ass for interrupting us.”

Ignis’s eyes are equally full of mirth. “As the prince commands,” he says, even folds a hand over his heart and gives a little bow.

Noctis grins, dropping his head back on his arms.

 

“Ah.”

Ignis reaches out a hand; Noctis swats it away.

“Leave it.”

Ignis’s hand hesitates and then falls, coming to rest on the curve of the prince’s thigh. “Very well.”

“Don’t take away my afterglow.” Noct thinks his face is threat to split from smiling, and even at that, he turns to hide his face in Ignis’s neck, and laughs breathlessly. Eighteen years have been waiting for this moment. He’s  _giddy._

“I couldn’t possibly even if I tried,” Ignis says. His fingertips trace an idle pattern up over the juncture where thigh meets groin, and Noctis shudders. “May be content to give you a bit more of it, though,” he continues contemplatively.

Noct grins, arching into the press of Ignis’s hand as it slides over his bare stomach. Every inch of his body is glowing with soft, yellow light, glimmering with a thousand stars. Ignis’s Midas touch from the heavens.

He takes Ignis’s hand, and presses his lips to the tips of his fingers.

“I think you’re rather pleased with yourself, _Highness._ ”

He nips at his finger and then relents. “Maybe,” he says, and drops back into the pillows. “Don’t pretend you don’t like it.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t.” Ignis props himself up on an elbow, and his eyes roam over Noctis’s exposed body. “You’re… beautiful,” he says, and it’s with far more reverence than Noctis thinks he deserves.

It makes him _squirm_ , the attention, despite the attention that has just been lavished upon his body. He takes comfort in the fact that Ignis sounds embarrassed complimenting him as though _he_ hadn’t just been the one to do said lavishing. “Right,” he says pathetically, and tugs Ignis down so that he can curl into his warmth. “Well, so are you.”

Ignis hums, a noise that might be a laugh if he wasn’t occupied with tucking Noct against his side. “Hardly.”

“You _are._ I may not be able to give you the stars but you still _are.”_

“I don’t need the stars.” A peck against Noctis’s forehead. “I have you, Noct.”

If his face flares up hot again, and he has to stifle a groan against his skin, well… he’s not _displeased_ , he thinks. There’s no way he possibly can be now.


End file.
